


Five Times Andy Should've Made a Move, One Time He Finally Did

by OreoCheesecake



Category: Conan - Fandom
Genre: Light BDSM, M/M, References to Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OreoCheesecake/pseuds/OreoCheesecake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a new guy at work. He's kind of a douche.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Andy Should've Made a Move, One Time He Finally Did

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is a fanfic. Yes, it’s about Andy and Conan. Yes, it’s very, very dirty and you should leave if you know what’s good for you. Read at your own risk. I’ll go crawl back into my hole now. I keep telling myself I will never write another Conan/Andy fic again because it’s just too weird and then I go do it anyway whyyyy. I hope you feel as creeped out reading this as I did while writing it! (But I enjoyed it anyways so maybe you will too if this is your cup of tea)

Andy never thought this day would come.

 

Then again, who the hell ever _thought_ about these things in the first place? But there they were, every staff member gathered in the studio as Conan introduced them to someone new.

 

That's how it started. Someone new. The very existence of a new face in their company was enough to boggle Andy's mind. Interns came in and out, but this guy, who stood beside Conan and grinned with all his teeth bared – creepy sight, by the way – was definitely _not_ an intern. But Conan had called them all in and no one really knew what to expect. Looks of utter confusion were shared, everyone mouthing the same syllable: _Who?._

 

“Greg,” Conan said, wrapping an arm around the guy's shoulders. It was then that Andy noticed how awkward the motion appeared. Conan did that all the time to people who were shorter than him – which meant ninety-nine percent of the world's population – but this guy was just about the same height, if not a few centimeters taller despite the few extra inches Conan's hair granted. Like Conan, he towered, but did it with a very deliberate slump.

 

Greg was equally lanky, and they stood side by side, glued together like a pair of unused chopsticks. Andy would've found the image hilarious if this Greg himself wasn't so... Off-putting. And maybe he was feeling a bit extra douchey that day, but seriously, there was something wrong with the dude that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Greg wore faded jeans, old man sneakers countered with a blazer on top of his black shirt. His graying hair did nothing to disguise the “desperately looking young-ish” look he was obviously going for. Hell, he even had the blocky hipster glasses and the short cropped black hair. A barely-there beard made him the most miserable Steve Jobs impersonator ever.

 

“...And so, meet my new Assistant Manager. You will obey this guy. You will,” Conan prattled on, tapping Greg's shoulder for emphasis. Greg remained smiling that odd smile that Andy (strangely enough) wanted to punch off. The feeling was unusual during this time of day. He usually reserved it for celebrities, and that was only when they opened their mouths. Greg hadn't said a word, only quirked his eyebrow at Conan while being introduced.

 

But he was already being an _asshole_.

 

“He's gonna be around for a while so... Love him or leave. Or pretend to love him then spread unflattering gossip while gathered around the water cooler like you usually do with me. Either way, chop chop.”

 

When the laughter died down, people started approaching and shaking Greg's hand. Andy remained away from the crowd, watching as Conan's arm didn't move from Greg's shoulder. He waited to make eye contact with Conan, but the other man never met his gaze.

 

He was too busy looking at Greg and smiling the widest smile Andy had seen in weeks.

 

What the _fuck_.

 

“So who is this guy?” Andy shot out later during rehearsal, as he plopped himself down on the armchair beside Conan's desk. Conan paused mid-strum (his guitar on his lap). Andy had to refrain from tacking something like 'And where the hell did you order him from' at the end of the sentence, hoping his suspicious look said it all.

 

“He's gonna be with us a long time,” Conan said, and began strumming again. He didn't even _look_ at Andy then either. “So, both of you play nice, alright?”

 

He hadn't answered the question.

 

Andy had an inkling that things were about to get seriously fucked up.

 

...And they did, over the course of the next few weeks.

 

(5)

 

The first incident already raised all sorts of red flags for him. Of course, other people probably didn't see it as anything important. But Andy knew his shit. He'd been working in the business for twenty years and someone just didn't pop out of nowhere like Greg and took charge of everything.

 

Okay, he was exaggerating. But Greg was suddenly a tall dark presence in every rehearsal, a shadow that followed Conan wherever he went. One afternoon, while going over that day's monologue, Conan flashed Andy a cue card. He did that all the time, his tendency to ask for input from pretty much anyone pretty standard at this point. And very often, he took their advice, no matter who it was.

 

Once, against his better judgment, Conan kept in a joke just because a plumber had told him to. And it had _worked_. Conan was just magical that way. Or maybe it was the plumber. But Conan would joke and say that it was Conan.

 

But back to that one afternoon...

 

A cue card was shoved in his face and Conan was in front of him, suddenly demanding to know if the joke should go or stay. Andy read over it for a few seconds.

 

“Sure. It's great.”

 

“Yeah it is, but it might fly over their heads. If it sucks bad, you're gonna have to save it by sucking even more.”

 

“You act like I don't do that even with the good jokes.”

 

Before they could share a proper laugh, Greg had swooped in on them, in between the armchair and Conan's desk. He was leaning over Conan with a thoughtful look on his face.

 

“What do you think, Greg? Stay or go?” Conan asked. Andy's eyebrows shot upward and he gawked. Since when did Conan ever go for a second opinion?

 

“Go,” Greg said instantly.

 

“But--”

 

“It's just not that good.”

 

“Okay, who the hell are you, Greg?” Andy shot out. His indignant tone might have been a joking one, but he was glaring daggers at the guy and meant every damn word.

 

“Settle down, fellas,” Conan said. “I'll decide later, then.”

 

The joke didn't make it in.

 

(4)

 

Andy and Conan had made it a habit to eat at the studio during lunch, in between rehearsals. It wasn't something the crew approved of, since there was always a chance of making a mess on the carpet or the cushions.

 

But they were Andy and Conan, after all.

 

That day, Andy had arrived at the studio with a burger he'd picked up at a nearby joint. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw that Conan already had company.

 

Greg. Of _course_. As Andy approached, Conan gave a little wave. Greg didn't really react, even as Andy came to a stop right in front of them.

 

“Um, that's my spot, buddy,” he said casually, gesturing at the armchair that Greg was occupying. Conan, naturally, had claimed his desk.

 

“As you can see, though, we're sharing a meal right now, so...” Greg pointed at the salad on the table. Two forks were sitting at the rim of the plastic bowl, which was kind of weird. If ever Conan shared meals with someone, it certainly wasn't done as a conscious decision.

 

Unlike now.

 

Andy didn't know what to respond. A small part of him insisted 'But I _always_ sit to Conan's right', but he figured that would just come out sounding whiny. So he turned to Conan.

 

“Well, Conan? He's upsetting the status quo!”

 

The redhead shrugged and grinned back. “You can always pull up a chair and sit on my left. Or use the couch?”

 

“The couch sounds like a good idea. I'd ask if you'd like some of this salad, but you don't seem like the time to enjoy sharing... Or salad, for that matter.”

 

Andy could only roll his eyes at that barb. A fat joke. Great, how _witty_. It did nothing to phase him, but what he found upsetting was Conan's lack of response to this new dude's shitty attitude. He was looking aside, as if trying to ignore whatever Greg said, but he wasn't jumping to Andy's defense either.

 

So that's how it was, apparently.

 

“You guys suck. I'll just eat in my dressing room.”

 

He exited to the right of the studio, irritated beyond belief. He tuned out whatever protests came from Conan or snide remarks that Greg might've made, not wanting to bother with the two of them, but out of the corner of his eye, he could've sworn Greg had just fed Conan a piece of tuna from his fork.

 

He was probably imagining it.

 

Because that wouldn't make sense, obviously.

 

(3)

 

Greg began showing up at tapings.

 

It was getting worse than he'd feared. The man had progressed to ordering everyone around (but trying to ignore Andy as much as possible), somehow working his way up the ranks in a matter of weeks. And if he wasn't scolding random crew members or even criticizing the band, he was attached to Conan's hip.

 

Andy hadn't gotten a moment alone with Conan in forever, and any time he tried to make conversation, he ended up hearing more out of that bastard Greg's mouth; he was Conan's designated mouthpiece these days. Conan was mostly silent, usually whispering to Greg and looking more and more exhausted every time Andy saw him.

 

It was taking its toll on the show, and Greg's presence behind the cameras wasn't helping. He watched like a hawk and, during commercial breaks, hounded anyone and everyone with every permutation of complaint possible. It was during a particularly stressful show (once again, thanks to Greg) that Andy had reached his breaking point.

 

Commercial break hit, and crewmembers flooded the stage to begin preparing for the next segment. Andy was sitting on the armchair at the time, and looked to his side to see Conan frantically going over his notes. He looked unusually pale, and remained sitting down even as people shuffled about. The guy usually used breaks to interact with the audience, but this Conan was quiet and withdrawn.

 

Andy saw that his mic was askew, and reached over to adjust it, like he usually did.

 

“Conan, is there anything wro--” he had begun, but his arm was suddenly shoved away. Greg had popped up out of nowhere and was hurriedly pulling Conan to his feet. Andy noticed that it hadn't been a friendly tug, no – Greg had full-on _jerked_ him upward and Conan teetered for a moment before finding his footing.

 

“That was terrible, what the hell's going on?” Greg's hands were fisted in Conan's lapels as he hissed at the man in front of him, Andy watching the entire scene dumbfoundedly. Before Conan could say anything, Greg continued.

 

“You can't maintain eye contact with anything for more than two seconds. _Focus_ , alright?” The asshole actually snapped his fingers in Conan's face as he said it. Like he was some dog. “From now on, just look at me at all times.”

 

“Now wait a minute, that sounds downright moronic,” Andy interjected angrily. “He should look at the camera!”

 

“What's that quote about sidekicks being seen and not heard?” Greg said, not even bothering to spare him a passing glance. White hot rage filled Andy, but he was still well aware that they were in front of an entire audience. He struggled to keep calm and gave Conan a helpless look, but the other male was too busy staring at Greg with what looked like fear mixed with... Admiration? Andy had never known Conan to be so timid. It's as if he'd been possessed.

 

“Your hair's a mess and your makeup looks terrible, because you keep touching your face. Keep your hands _still_ , dammit, it's a simple fucking task. Don't go unbuttoning and buttoning your jacket all the time. Ugh, I gotta fix these things myself, it seems...”

 

Greg started to usher Conan backstage, his hand wrapping around Conan's hip with a noticeably practiced ease that unnerved Andy. They were starting to walk away when Andy grabbed Conan's wrist, prepared to turn this into a tug-of-war if he had to.

 

“Conan, what are you doing? You should stay out _here_ , it's just a commercial break and we're supposed to take pictures with the fans!”

 

“It'll just take a sec, Andy, I promise,” Conan said, his voice and expression vacant. He pulled his hand from Andy's grip and strode away with the other man, leaving Andy completely bewildered for a few moments. He rushed after them, prayed the audience hadn't noticed the commotion.

 

Offstage, Greg had procured himself a bag of brushes (probably having wrestled it from a makeup artist) and was touching up the powder on Conan's face. Andy stared. The scene looked oddly intimate, Conan not even batting an eyelash that Greg's face was inches from his own and his fingers were dabbing all over his skin. In fact, Conan's eyes were brighter and bluer than ever as he stood absolutely still and maintained eye contact with the man.

 

Something was definitely going on here.

 

“Shouldn't the makeup artist be doing that?” Andy pointed out. Greg let out a sound of frustration, but didn't bother turning to face Andy.

 

“I thought you had an audience to tend to,” he said in a clipped tone. His hands were in Conan's hair, adjusting some unruly strands.

 

“What do you think, Andy?” Conan interjected. He grinned at his sidekick and turned his face side to side. “I think I've gone from chalk white to ivory. Not bad, eh?”

 

“You looked fine before,” Andy said with a frown. Greg had really piled the makeup on, but the man still seemed unsatisfied because he suddenly grabbed Conan's hand and looked at it.

 

“I think we should cover up your freckles here, too,” he said.

 

“His freckles are _fine_.” Andy's voice was increasing in volume; he felt oddly enough like an over-protective parent but where did this guy get off of putting down Conan like that, and why wasn't Conan anything to stop it?

 

“They do look like uncooked spam...” Andy gave the redhead a look of disbelief. He was agreeing with every one of Greg's whims, thereby throwing Andy under the bus. But when he noticed Andy's questioning glance, he added hurriedly, “Maybe you should go ahead, Andy. I'll catch up in a minute.”

 

“Your fans need you,” he said as a last ditch effort to win back Conan's loyalty. But Greg was already positioned behind Conan, hands on his hips. Manuevering him. Manipulating him so _openly_. “You have to learn to stand straight and not lean on your right leg all the time,” he was saying, lips practically touching Conan's ear.

 

Andy shook his head, not wanting to witness any more of this bizzare crap. Besides, Conan had clearly picked a side, and it was the one with tactless, pedantic assholes with no respect for personal boundaries. He turned heel and walked back to the stage.

 

The show would go on as usual, aside from Conan following every one of Greg's supposedly good suggestions to the letter. To Andy, it looked robotic and awkward and so... Un- _Conan._ But it's not like he could tell Conan anything anymore.

 

(2)

 

He tended to wander the halls aimlessly these days, which was unlike him. Even passing interns took the time to spare curious glances in his direction. He was usually in his dressing room taking a nap in between rehearsals, but even his favorite hobby was becoming an increasingly impossible task. He'd lain awake, twitching and turning, plagued with images of Greg's creepy grin.

 

He refused to think about Conan. As if his presence in Andy's life wasn't powerful enough. Admittedly, it was difficult to unhinge himself from the person whose very existence fueled his career. He changed his position on the couch again, grumbling upon feeling something jutting out from beneath the back cushion. Bemused, Andy pulled out a familiar doll, complete with a knitted, bright orange pompadour and matching beard.

 

“It's always about you, isn't it,” He mumbled darkly, before tossing it down on the floor. It landed face-up. It's blank, bead-made eyes were still judging him, which he found downright unfair. Sighing, he got up, stretched and decided to take another walk.

 

There was no particular destination in his mind after he passed the lounge for coffee. It was most likely habit that brought him to the hall nearing Conan's dressing room, and he turned the corner, he immediately wished he'd taken that nap after all.

 

It was a sight he never thought he'd witness. There was no mistaking the two impossibly tall figures crowded together on one side of the hallway. Greg had Conan pressed up against the wall, the latter leaning back and arching in a manner that willingly granted the former those few added precious inches. Greg looked downright predatory in comparison. Andy was frozen on the spot, not quite sure what to do. The two hadn't noticed him – they were locked in a heated kiss, and Andy could've sworn he heard Conan moan.

 

Seething anger bubbled inside him for reasons he couldn't explain. He'd guessed as much that they were in some kind of clandestine relationship, but Conan didn't tell him a _goddamn thing_ and yet now they were apparently comfortable enough making out in a hallway.

 

He wanted to throw his coffee cup. Preferrably at Greg, who had one hand tangled in Conan's hair like he was trying to scalp him. Seriously, who did he think he was? The other hand was sliding up Conan's untucked shirt, exposing a sliver of pale skin that was peppered with purple marks. _Were those bruises? What the fuck._

 

But Conan seemed to enjoying all of this and that's what made it so mindblowing. His eyes were screwed shut from pleasure as he kissed Greg back with equal fervor, his hands were bunched in Greg's suit jacket, pulling the man as close as possible.

 

_I should leave._

 

Andy's feet didn't move.

 

_I should get the fuck out of here._

 

But in some way, to see Conan exposed like this was mesmerizing. He just didn't get why Greg, of all people, was triggering this change. Andy didn't miss the way Greg ground his hips against the other male's, with Conan actually gasping in response, before finally pulling away from that overly-long kiss.

 

“Maybe we should continue this in your dressing room,” Greg said with a low voice. Andy never wanted to hear that tone coming from him again.

 

“Why not? It's only two steps away. But that didn't stop you just now, did it?”

 

“Because you looked tired.”

 

“...I am,” Conan admitted softly, his gaze dropping uncharacteristically.

 

“Then I'm calling off rehearsal and you're coming with me.”

 

“Greg, I--”

 

“That's what I'm here for, right? _Right_?” And that's when Andy noticed that Greg's hands were no longer messing up Conan's hair or groping him under his shirt. They were squeezing Conan's wrists, and there was no denying Conan's wince at the action.

 

That's when Andy turned heel and walked away, because the urge to punch Greg was almost too much to bear at this point but he had no idea what was going on. He didn't know what Conan had gotten himself into, but whatever this was couldn't go on. It was ruining the show. Worse, it was ruining _Conan_. When did he lose his spine to this bastard and why was he allowing it to happen?

 

When Andy rounded a corner, he breathed a sigh of relief and took a sip of his coffee. The task was nearly impossible; his hands were still shaking. His mind was still being assaulted with images of creepy Greg and his creepy hands roaming all over Conan's skin.

 

Even worse, there was an ache in his groin. He was rock hard.

 

He would have to confront Conan, and hope that by doing so, that memory would somehow cease to haunt him.

 

(1)

 

A few days (and couple of bad shows) later, he finally mustered the courage to confront Conan. He had to, anyway. Rehearsal had started thirty minutes ago and Conan wasn't on set. Andy volunteered to be the one to surgically separate him from Greg's dick and drag him back to the show.

 

So he ventured to Conan's dressing room. He'd made it a point not to pass there anymore ever since the incident he witnessed a few days back, but thankfully this time the hallway was bare. Andy approached Conan's door, and gripped the handle, twisting it.

 

It was locked.

 

Conan _never_ locked his dressing room.

 

Andy pressed his ear against the wood. He was dreading what he would hear.

 

Two people talking in hushed voices. Definitely Conan and Greg. Andy was relieved. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but nothing else seemed to be going on aside from--

 

Then came the thumping.

 

Something squeaking constantly. Something that sounded very much like a couch.

 

Andy's heart was pounding. He felt – _sick_. This couldn't be happening. Conan let a guy into the show, someone nobody knew, and not only was Greg destroying everything they had worked for decades, but he was also...

 

There came a soft moan, and Andy was sure it came from--

 

He pulled away, breathing heavily. There was an ache in his lower torso that he fought to ignore, but it was causing his mind to fill with images he wasn't exactly banishing immediately.

 

It made him feel... Betrayed. And angry. Did Conan not care about the show anymore?

 

Rage overtook him and Andy's hammered his fist against the door several times. “Conan!” He yelled. “Conan, unlock this door NOW! This is extremely unprofessional!”

 

It took far too long for someone to open the door. Thirty, maybe forty seconds passed before Andy found himself looking up at the bemused face of Greg.

 

He didn't bother talking to the man. Andy pushed his way in, and saw Conan on the couch, trying to sit up and button his shit at the same time. Andy tried to ignore the suit jackets and shoes strewn all over the floor, and how Conan's shirt was half-untucked, his zipper open. There was a hickie on his neck. He was sweaty and dazed and hadn't entirely realized that Andy could see everything.

 

They hadn't even bothered to disguise what they'd been doing before Andy knocked. And that's why his temper reached its boiling point.

 

“Conan, what the hell!”

 

It was an outburst that made Conan, who was already frazzled by the interruption, jump. Greg remained holding the door open, his lips pursed. He was obviously holding back more than a few choice insults meant for him, but Andy no longer cared.

 

“What's the big deal, Andy?” Conan looked irritated after having finally found his voice.

 

“What's the _big deal_? You're the one who's locking doors now and avoiding rehearsals! We can't have rehearsals at Conan without _Conan,_ for Christ's sake!”

 

“I let him off rehearsal. He needed a break,” Greg cut in. Andy rolled his eyes, turning around to face the other man.

 

“You,” he practically spat. “Have nothing to do with this. I need to talk to Conan privately. Get out of the room.”

 

“As if I'm going to listen to--”

 

“Greg, step out for a sec.” Both men stared at Conan in shock, but the redhead wore a cold expression that indicated that he wasn't joking around.

 

“But--”

 

“I'll be out in a minute, promise.”

 

Greg, for the first time since Andy'd met him, followed someone else's orders for a change and left the room, but not before throwing Andy the dirtiest look he could muster.

 

“I'll decide when you'll be out,” Andy said snippily. At this, Conan only buried his face in his hands.

 

“What do you want, Andy.”

 

“I want him gone. I want you to go back to normal. I want you to _tell me what's wrong_.”

 

Conan looked up fiercely. His eyes were still an icy blue, but he looked more worn than angry.

 

“I can't do any of that. Greg needs to stay.”

 

“Oh, really? What does he have on you? He's hurting you. He's doing... _Something_. He's ruining the show!”

 

“He's helping!”

 

“How? By getting you off? Is that it?” Conan's face darkened at this. They were practically yelling at each other now.

 

“That's none of your business, Andy.”

 

“It became my business when you two stopped bothering to try and hide it. How long is this going to go on, Conan? Are you going to let your career get ruined a second time?”

 

Andy knew he had pressed too far. In part, he had done it intentionally. The fiery Conan who'd disappeared since Greg showed up was back, at least for a second, when he stood up, looking absolutely livid.

 

“You crossed the line. Get out of here. In fact, don't bother coming to work for a couple of days.”

 

“I could've helped you. No matter what you asked, Conan. All you had to do was tell me,” Andy's voice turned pleading. At that, Conan's glare softened. Regret was etched on his features and he looked straight into Andy's eyes.

 

“I honestly wish that I'd known that sooner.”

 

Conan strode past him without another word, and opened the door. Greg, the asshole he was, was standing outside. Andy was frozen on the spot, and didn't bother turning around to watch them leave. They were muttering, Greg saying something about a motel nearby.

 

The situation wasn't entirely hopeless yet.

 

Andy would give them an hour before ending this once and for all.

 

(Showtime)

 

He shouldn't have been so relieved to see Greg _outside_ the motel room, smoking on the balcony, but he was. His gaze flickered downward, scanning the man for (God forbid) evidence of sexual activity but Greg's hair wasn't tousled, his clothes un-creased. Either he was exceptional at clean-ups or, as Andy would hope, they hadn't really done anything yet.

 

...At least, not tonight. That was the tiny consolation he took.

 

“You,” he shot out as he drew closer. “Leave.”

 

Greg didn't look surprised at all to see him. If he was, he hid it behind one of his feral grins.

 

“Oh, hey. I was just about to--”

 

“Screw him? You've already screwed us all over by messing with him so get the fuck out of here. Your services are no longer needed.” The other man raised an eyebrow, amused and not at all threatened. Naturally, that irritated Andy even more.

 

“What are you, jealous?”

 

“I'm his best friend. We don't want you.”

 

“He needs me more than you'll ever know.”

 

“No. You're using him and it's sick. You're a disgusting human being.” He'd escalated to pointing at Greg, a finger practically poking his chest. Greg flashed him a look of annoyance before batting his hand away in disgust. His other hand killed the cigarette, mashing it down on the railing of the balcony. He finally turned to look at him fully.

 

“And you're not? Why are you really here, Richter? Is it to save your best friend or are you just being the creepy, pathetic sidekick that you are, trying to cash in on something worthwhile?”

 

He stood straight, clearly lording the obvious height difference between them. But the guy should've known better; Andy'd regularly spent time with the tallest man in the business, after all. He stood squarely and faced the other man down.

 

“I'm here because Conan deserves much better than anything you can ever provide and I can actually give him what he wants.” Greg let out a laugh, loud and gravelly. He was smirking.

 

“He's in there waiting for the fucking of a lifetime. _Begging_ for it. Who's gonna give that to him, hmm? You?”

 

Andy paused. _Jesus_ , this guy was crazy. Who got off talking about someone that way, let alone Conan? Andy's fists were squeezed at his sides, and he fought every instinct that screamed for him to give the man the beating he deserved. Unfortunately, Greg took his silence as a sign of surrender, for his smirk widened and he continued rambling in that oily voice of his.

 

“I knew it. This was all just the perfect opportunity for you wasn't it? To jump your boss. Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I've fucked him day in and day out, and no matter how much you wish it, your name isn't what he's been screa--”

 

Despite what people assumed, Andy could move quickly when he wanted to. In a flash, his fist had collided with the bridge of Greg's nose, producing a sickening crack. Blood had splattered on his knuckles and Andy stared at the mess in disgust, while Greg howled in pain and clutched at his face.

 

“You _fucker_!” He swore, voice muffled by his bloody hands. Andy merely shrugged.

 

“Keep that up and the next one'll be in the dick.”

 

Greg muttered something unintelligible before throwing Andy a scathing glare. He then turned heel and walked past the man. Andy caught a few whimpers of pain escaping him before he disappeared around the corner.

 

That had been unexpectedly easy. Of course Greg ended up being the kind of guy who'd be all talk and no bite.

 

Andy shuffled awkwardly in place, now contemplating his next possible action. He was facing Greg's motel room, and he knew exactly what would be behind the door number one.

 

He just wasn't sure if he was all that prepared for it.

 

Taking a deep breath, Andy took a few steps forward. He almost considered knocking, but something told him that wouldn't be necessary.

 

“Conan.”

 

“Hey, Andy.”

 

Just seeing Conan sitting casually at the foot of a small bed, staring at him like he'd known all along Andy would be here, was already giving him cold feet. He froze, hand still on the door knob, the awkwardness thickening in the air around them.

 

Conan's expression was uncharacteristically... Blank. But the worry lines and eyebags were still visible even despite the crappy overhead lighting. He was slumped forward, elbows leaning on his thighs for support. His hair was a mess, meaning he had probably been running his hands through it like he was known to do whenever he was stressed.

 

He didn't look happy to see Andy. Or sad. Or angry. Just... Exhausted.

 

“I thought you'd be in the-- uh--”

 

“Bathroom? Getting ready for all the sex? I could feel the testosterone wafting all the way to me from the balcony. Gave me sexy chills.” Conan managed a wry smile, which Andy didn't return. His insides were turning cold. To think Conan had heard all that shit in the conversation they exchanged...

 

“You heard.”

 

“I couldn't resist. I'd always wanted to be talked about like some kind of trophy. Two guys fighting over little ol' me. Every little girl's dream.”

 

Guilt was piercing him to the bone. Andy felt downright ashamed at this point. Seriously, what did he think he was doing? What did he expect to happen tonight? “Look, I didn't mean...”

 

“I know what you meant,” Conan said loudly, cutting him off. “And I realized something. While you were out there, calling each other every possible variation of 'pathetic' – in fact, I'm surprised no one went with 'commiserable', 'deplorable', 'piteous' or 'wretched' – I was the guy inside the dingy motel room just waiting for whoever would come in. I didn't make a decision. I just sat here and waited, Andy. And I think that's the worst crime of all here.”

 

Andy hadn't realized it sooner, but his own two feet had moved of their own accord. He was soon standing in front of Conan, looking down at the other man but hesitant to do anything else. It was Conan that leaned forward. His head was soon buried against Andy's chest, orange hair so tall it tickled his chin. Andy awkwardly patted his back. This was the kind of comfort one gave out naturally, and it seemed right for the moment.

 

But they were both thinking of a different sort of comfort and that common desire was eating at them both. Andy could feel it charging the atmosphere of the room, altering an otherwise innocent scene into something almost sinister. Conan's back felt hot to his touch. He could barely breathe, with Conan resting against his chest like that. His body was frozen in place, every touch electric.

 

So Andy dared to travel higher and slowly dragged his fingers through Conan's hair. He should've realized much earlier that that area seemed to be something of an erogenous zone, since he was pretty sure he'd just heard Conan actually purr at the contact. Andy continued to stroke, gently at first, feeling strangely like an owner greeting his pet.

 

And that brought on a whole new slew of images that he wasn't ready for, though his nether regions spoke differently.  
  


“It's been like this. For what, weeks? All because I've just been so tired. It's harrowing, you know? To be in charge all the time. I just wanted to shirk off my responsibilities for a change,” came Conan's voice, muffled by Andy's shirt.

 

“Let loose for a bit?”

 

“Yeah.,” he replied, after a pause. Andy was still running his fingers through that hair, and Conan appeared to relish the treatment because his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Sometimes I feel like – like I'm doing the opposite of powertripping. I _want_ so badly to get this load off my shoulders that I just have to... Have to... Submit.”

 

Conan suddenly snapped his head back, widthdrawing from Andy's reach. He was staring with a wild look in his eyes, like he'd just woken up from a nightmare. “And look, I'm rambling and no longer making sense, and this is the part where you're supposed to cut me off by kissing me.” He threw his hands in the air for emphasis, looking downright exasperated.

 

Andy didn't know how to respond to that.

 

“You want us to... Kiss?”

 

“Hey, you just wanted to hit it and quit it? I'm not that easy.”

 

“Didn't think you wanted to take things slo—” Freckled fingers seized him by the collar and pulled him in, and before he knew it, Conan had turned words into action. His lips were surprisingly gentle, and Andy closed his eyes as he pressed back, tilting his head down for better access. Conan began to lean backward, dragging Andy with him. Soon, he was reaching an angle wherein clinging to Andy became a necessity to prevent from falling back on the bed. It was slowly dawning over Andy that that was exactly the position Conan wanted – he was arching his back, allowing Andy to loom over him, not-so-subtly granting him permission to take control.

 

Andy felt a rush of satisfaction he didn't expect.

 

So he let himself be pulled, his shirt overstretched at this point but he no longer cared. He braced himself against the bed, his hands bracketing Conan's thighs as he continued kissing the redhead. Their movements became more furious, and the way their tongues brushed together sent bursts of pleasure shooting down his spine. Everything seemed to finally click into place in Andy's mind on what he was supposed to do. _This is what Conan wanted._

 

And more than ever, he felt more than ready to give it to him.

 

So Andy pulled back, and Conan's eyes snapped open in surprise. He looked with a questioning glance. Andy began to unbuckle his own belt.

 

“Alright, enough of that mushy stuff. Take your clothes off.” The order was greeted with a snort of laughter from Conan, who looked taken aback. Andy wouldn't let that ruin the mood, and he slipped his belt off completely. Conan shook his head, grinning.

 

“You just want to order me around.”

 

“No, but that's what I'm here for and I'm not in the mood to joke right now.” The typically snide and sarcastic version of Conan was still rearing its ugly head and he was going to stamp it out.

 

“Should I be scared?”

 

Andy didn't muster a smile. He dropped his belt on the floor and lunged forward, pushing Conan back until he was flat on his back, lying on top of the comforter. Andy clambered over him and aggressivelys seized his belt buckle this time, hands inadvertently grappling at the cloth of his pants. Conan yelped.

 

“Okay, okay! Get off, you know this suit's from wardrobe!” He watched bemused, as Conan (who didn't even bother getting up) started trying to wiggle his way out of his clothes. Andy concentrated on his own attire, wrenching off his shirt and stepping out of his jeans. He moved swiftly as possible, acting on instinct, hoping neither of them would change their minds too late.

 

Conan had somehow gotten everything off except his pants and underwear. He was flopping around on the bed, trying to wrestle off his trousers. Andy sighed and grabbed hold of the legs of his pants, before pulling them clean off in one fluid motion and exposing his long, pale legs.

 

“Holy _shit,_ Andy,” Conan said breathlessly. He was staring with a look of wonder, and Andy's self-consciousness finally seemed to be kicking in. He realized how bizarre it was, standing in front of Conan in just his underwear. He felt awkward and clumsy and far too large compared to the man laying down before him, who was all neatly sharp angles (aside from that impossible six-pack, _shit,_ he'd forgotten about that and felt doubly embarrassed about himself). His skin practically glowed white in the darkness.

 

He raised himself with his elbows, casting Andy a look he'd never received from Conan before. In the midst of his momentary breakdown of self-esteem, Andy inwardly rejoiced at the fact that Conan was actually giving him the bedroom eyes.

 

Clearly, he liked what he saw, and the obvious bulge in his underwear provided extra evidence of that. That was good enough for Andy, who steeled himself and got to work.

 

“Now give me your belt and hold your wrists out.”

 

The tantalizing smirk on Conan's face quickly disappeared. “You have got to be--”

 

“Do as I say.”

 

“Oh, is this how we're playing now? You're the boss, is that how it's gonna--”

 

An audible crack filled the room as Andy snapped his belt. Conan flinched so hard even the bed shook, and almost immediately, crawled to his knees in front of him, hunching over and offering up his bare wrists. The instantaneous change in his attitude was almost unnerving. The hitch in his breath was easily heard as Andy began tying Conan's wrists together, making sure the leather was wound tight. Conan had lost all fight in him and simply sat still while Andy finished the job.

 

They were both ignoring their obvious hard-ons; Andy's was aching just at the sight of Conan like this, offering himself up like a sacrifice. His head was bowed so Andy couldn't see his face, but his skin was flushed and the redness was spreading all the way to his bare back. Andy longed to touch him, knowing there were many other shades of color Conan's skin could turn. As if sensing his budding excitement, he heard as Conan's breathing began to quicken.

 

“That's _really_ tight,” he mumbled. But Andy spared no expense in maintaining his role for tonight.

 

“If you don't shut up, I'm going to gag you with your tie.”

 

Andy slid down his boxers, freeing his hardened cock. Conan was giving him that amazed look again, the one Andy felt he didn't entirely deserve. Hell, in hindsight, he should've made Conan take off his underwear first before having tied up his hands. But it was too late for that, and they managed to sort of awkwardly shimmy Conan out of his underwear. His cock was long and thin like the rest of him. Nothing unusual; in fact, this was the easy part. They'd both seen each other naked before. There were only so many sketches you could do before resorting to nude comedy.

 

But fuck it if they'd never _used_ their cocks in front of each other in the past.

 

“Do you have...”

 

“In the bathroom.”

 

Andy nodded. “While I'm getting ready, turn around, grab onto the headboard and you better not let go.”

 

“...Okay.”

 

Conan was rising from his crouch as Andy turned around and went on his way. As expected, there was a half-empty bottle on the sink – for better or for worse, he promised not to think about where the rest of its contents might have gone. Next to it was a small pile of condom packets. He indicriminately grabbed one, ripped it open and slid it over his aching dick.

 

After pumping himself a few times to make sure the condom was in place, he poured a generous amount of lube on himself, spreading it over his length. He also made sure his hands were slick before proceeding back to the bedroom.

 

Andy stopped at the doorway, gaping at the sight before him. Conan was kneeling, facing the headboard now, having obediently followed his orders judging from the way his bound hands were clutching the wood. His crouched position gave Andy a full view of his ass – and he _did_ have quite an ass, no matter what he claimed. His shoulder blades were jutting out and his torso tapered off into a remarkably thin waist.

 

Not like Andy hadn't seen this all before. He noted amusedly to himself that when it came to crossing barriers, the only one really left between them at this point was actual sex. But Conan was a lot skinnier than he remembered, almost scarily close to skeletal. Andy filed that one away as another issue they would discuss later.

 

He approached carefully from behind and reached one hand out. Conan tensed when Andy nudged his hip. Andy tried to relax him by massaging the spot, gently. At that, Conan chuckled and shook his head.

 

“You know I want it rough,” he said in a low tone, and Andy squeezed, elliciting a groan. He hauled himself onto the bed, knees bracketing Conan's, and ran his other hand down Conan's back, using just enough force to make it redden instantly.

 

Conan having sensitive skin was another turn-on that he'd apparently just discovered.

 

He wanted to claim every inch of him and leave his marks for everyone to see. As if reading his mind, Conan murmured “Anywhere but the face.” Andy almost rolled his eyes. TV stars really could be narcissistic fucks when they wanted to be.

 

Curling his fingers slightly, he made a mental note to himself that it was now or never. His other hand remained squeezing Conan's hip while he slowly breached Conan's entrance with one digit. He'd never done this before, which is why his heart was pounding in his ears. All he knew were the basics and he could only pray that he was doing it right. Conan seemed to be okay with his pace. Andy watched his back rise and heard the sharp intake of breath, the redhead shifting ever so slightly to grant him further access.

 

Jesus.

 

The lube helped ease his finger in without any issue, but Andy wasn't as confident as he had been (faking) about a minute ago. He couldn't help but ask “Is this okay?” before proceeding. Conan answered with a very slight nod. If he was amused by the need for assurance, he definitely didn't show it. It was a challenge, letting his gaze move away from the expanse of Conan's skin. He looked at Conan's hands resting on the bedpost, still very much entwined in his belt. At least he was taking this seriously.

 

Andy added another finger, with less hesitation this time. It joined the first, and he let them sink into Conan like they belonged there. It took a bit more effort on his part, since he wasn't prepared for this level of – and he felt like such a fucking loser for thinking it – _compression_ but the pressure was increasing the further he went.

 

“Wow, you're... Tight,” He said, and regretted it immediately. Because he saw the slight shake in Conan's shoulders, like he was giving it his all in order to refrain from making a snide comment. ' _And why would you assume otherwise_ ,' He assumed Conan was thinking. To remind everyone (including himself) that he was in charge, Andy steeled himself and jammed in a third finger with one swift motion.

 

At this, Conan let out a gasp and shifted his knees. Andy almost pulled his fingers out in surprise, wondering if he had hurt him. But there was no further reaction, and his hand was starting to feel stiff.

 

Before he could contemplate what to do next, Conan (apparently) couldn't help himself and muttered outloud: “Just put it in already.” At that, a wave of irritation passed over him and he wrenched his fingers out. Conan hissed in pain.

 

“I thought I told you,” Andy growled, and he shoved them back in again. At that, Conan made a surprised noise, one that was tinged with pain and pleasure.

 

“To stop,” He pulled back, pressed in once more, causing the man to visibly jerk.

 

“Talking.” He repeated the motion and pressed as deep as possible and Conan outright moaned, his voice increasing in pitch. The sound went straight to Andy's dick. He was hard rock at this point and feeling jubilant at apparently having found Conan's spot.

 

Conan bucked eagerly against him, clearly signalling that he wanted more. As a result, his hands were beginning to slide off the bedpost, wrists precariously perched on the wood. Andy fingered Conan relentlessly, deliberately pushing him forward with the thrust of his fingers.

 

“I told you, hands on the bedpost.”

 

“They _are,”_ Conan all but whined.

 

“If you want my dick, you're gonna have to do as I say,” He responded in a warning tone. He wasn't even going to lie; he was enjoying this _way_ too much.

 

“Hell yeah, I want your dick,” Conan said in a much louder voice. Andy couldn't see his face, but he was shifting around so much that his desperation was palpable as ever. His back, though largely untouched, was turning so red that Andy could've mapped out his entire body's blood circulation with ease. “I want your dick _so bad_. Give it to me, Andy. _Please_?”

 

Conan could really be transparent when he didn't give a fuck. It was obvious he was playing up his submissiveness to get Andy to fuck him faster, and dammit, it was working. He should've known Conan would play dirty; he could practically see his rakish grin.

 

“Oh, shut up,” He said in one breath, while grabbing his own dick and inching forward on his knees so he could finally plow Conan with it. It was a lot harder – figuratively – to get it in, but Conan kept absolutely still while Andy penetrated him bit by bit. Conan's body was unforgivingly tight around him. He bit his lip and grabbed Conan's thighs, partially to push them apart just because it looked fucking hot and partly so he could squeeze as tightly as possible and leave bruising imprints on that smooth skin.

 

“Ahh--” Conan started to say, just as Andy let out an “Oh God,” and they both shuddered when he finally found himself sheathed completely in the other male. They were pressed together, his hips jutting firmly against Conan's ass. His legs were right behind Conan's, leaving no space for his hands so he moved them back up to Conan's hips and grabbed hold.

 

Part of him wanted to remain like this, and he felt his dick pulsing inside Conan, demanding for more friction. At that moment, Andy's doubts and grievances washed away – he let instinct take over, no longer worrying about doing things wrong. Sex was sex, and sex with Conan was ten times more fantastic and primal and mind-numbing than it had every right to be. This part, he could handle.

 

So Andy pulled out, and thrust into Conan again, and the resounding scream was music to his ears.

 

They developed a rhythm quite easily, probably since their relationship had always been centered around finding a balance between push and pull. And this time, it was Andy pushing, Conan pulling, meeting him in the middle with every jerking at the precise moment Andy rammed his dick in his ass. The sounds he made were glorious, and Andy himself couldn't recall being this blasphemous before.

 

“FUCK!” Conan yelled when Andy pushed particularly hard. There was a loud creak; the bedpost rocked on its hinges, and Conan fell on his elbows on the mattress, now crouched so low – everything except his ass, still high in the air and held in place by Andy, being thoroughly fucked.

 

As enticing as the sight was, Andy reacted furiously. His dick was buried to the hilt and that allowed him to lean over Conan – he was now in him and directly above him, casting a shadow over his pale back as he reached forward and grabbed a fistful of unruly red hair.

 

“Up,” Andy snapped, pulling Conan's head back. The redhead groaned, obviously exhausted.

 

“Andy, wait--”

 

“ _Up_.” Andy jerked hard, and Conan whimpered, streched so uncomfortably that Andy could now see the ridges of his spine. Nevertheless, he let out hoarse breaths as he clambered on all fours and obediently placed his bound wrists back on the bedpost. They were rubbed raw, pink from all the chafing and his knuckles were deathly white. Nevertheless, Conan clasped the wood as if his life depended on it, and his head remained bowed. Andy briefly wished he could see his face, but it was a small sacrifice to pay for an experience as thrilling as this.

 

“Now hold on _tight_ ,” Andy groaned out through gritted teeth as he resumed his previous motions. He was rough and merciless and they both loved it, Conan yelping as the headboard banged against the wall this time. Even the bed shook, which meant he had to tone it down just a bit if they were gonna get to keep fucking on this cheap, shitty motel bed.

 

“Touch me,” Conan suddenly choked out. Andy, in all his satisfaction, felt a twinge of sheepishness. He had honestly forgotten that there was another dick that needed attending to. Still, he continued fucking Conan, acting like he hadn't heard.

 

“C'mon, Andy, I need--” Conan pleaded weakly. His groans were quieting down, his posture caving in. But Andy shook his head.

 

“You'll get yours after I've gotten mine,” he remarked, and he knew it was cruel, but Conan didn't do a thing about it. He muttered something that sounded a lot like “ _you son of a bitch,_ ” before falling quiet. Andy would just have to let that one slide. He was almost done, anyway.

 

So he acquiesed to Conan's request and released a badly bruised hip, his hand arm looping under Conan's stomach to grab a firm hold of his leaking dick. But Andy had barely brushed his fingers against it when Conan shuddered and came with a high-pitched moan. His body constricted around Andy's cock, and the resulting pressure was so great that he saw stars and promptly came as well. Only when it was over did he pull out, exerting all his remaining effort into getting off the bed so he could dispose of the condom properly. While he was tying it up, he spotted Conan, already wriggling his way beneath the blankets.

 

Andy wasn't so sure what to do next. Now that it was over, was he supposed to leave? The last thing he wanted to do was entertain thoughts of what Greg might've – or must've – done. And asking Conan would ruin the nice afterglow.

 

“What're you waiting for,” Conan said softly, slurring his words. His eyes weren't even open, but he was already settled in on the bed, but had apparently left some space from Andy.

 

Andy hesitantly raised the covers and slid in next to Conan. He was feeling weird about everything again now that their base instincts were out of the way. Conan was lying on his side, already dozing off, facing him. Andy almost snorted when he saw that the man had made no move to remove the belt, which was still bound around his wrists. So he lay on his side, facing Conan, and started unbuckling it.

 

“...Thanks,” Conan said, clearly half-asleep. This felt oddly intimate, much moreso than the round of sex they'd just had, and yet Andy's doubts were easing away slowly. This felt natural, falling asleep together, and not as foreign as he expected. His fingers brushed against Conan skin. He smiled, even though Conan couldn't see it.

 

“No problem, boss.”

 

(0)

 

“This is the fourth time I've botched my line, what the fuck is wrong with me,” Conan groaned into his hands. He was slumped over on his desk and Andy had to resist the urge to reach over and pat him on the back.

 

“Even worse is that you don't have any guests to blame it on.”

 

“Dick,” Conan said in a muffled voice. “I'm just so...” He let out a noise of frustration and started massaging his temples. Andy gave him a look of concern. He looked paler than normal and was acting a lot more jittery.

 

“Hey,” he said, leaning over to the redhead and dropping his voice. “We can take a break, you know. Thirty minutes tops, then rehearse again.”

 

Conan sat still for a moment, before nodding. And then the two men stood up and started heading backstage.

 

“Are you guys walking off the set? The hell?” Called a particularly nosy stagehand. Conan waved a hand and simply answered, in a cool tone.

 

“I'm taking a break! Thirty minutes. Go build some mascots or something.”

 

He and Andy were silent as they walked briskly down the series of hallways. They didn't even make eye contact as they passed interns, who looked none too wiser as they scurried past. Finally, they arrived at Conan's dressing room.

 

“Are you wearing a belt?” Conan said quietly.

 

“No. Why should I?” Conan sighed rather dramatically at that.

 

“Great. Just _fantastic_.”

 

“We're going into a _dressing room_ ,” Andy pointed out. “You have plenty of belts there.”

 

“Yeah, but I like yours better.” And he pulled Andy into the room, not bothering to hide his devilish grin. “Now let's get to work.”

 

The door slammed shut.

 

=Fin=


End file.
